


With Indifferent Eyes

by stormyheroine



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Human, Charles and Raven are biological siblings, Charles can see dead people, Detective Erik, Drama & Romance, Fluff, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, How Do I Tag, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Murder Mystery, Poor Charles, Protective Erik, Sean's a ghost, Slow Burn, rating might change as I go I don't know what I'm doing, you know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 09:44:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6279559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormyheroine/pseuds/stormyheroine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time it happens, Charles is seven, and they're putting his father in the ground. He doesn't realize that nobody else can see what he does, or that his life is about to change forever. </p><p>Years later, teenaged Charles is grappling with college applications, his fucked up stepfamily, and trying to right the wrongs of restless spirits. It's kind of a lot to deal with, particularly when he becomes witness to a murder victim's last moments, finding himself swept up into an investigation that quickly goes out of control. </p><p>Meanwhile, Erik, an up-and-coming detective with a sizable chip on his shoulder, just wants to figure out what kind of serial killer he's dealing with. And maybe just how exactly the strange young man with such eerie blue eyes knows so much about the situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Indifferent Eyes

 

The first time it happens, Charles is seven, sweating through an overlarge suit under the force of the unrelenting August heat. His mother stands beside him, holding one small hand crushed between her own, the tracks of her tears making grotesque smears out of her makeup as she stands there in quiet grief. Most of the guests, a good portion of the New York social class, have turned their faces away in respect, speaking quiet platitudes under their breath. Many remember Brian Xavier with great fondness, and the sight of his normally well put together wife, so broken down, clutching the hand of her undersized son, is enough to make them dip their heads, ashamed for a reason they cannot name. 

Charles jumps at the hand that brushes past his shoulder, to see the kindly man, dressed in stiff black clothes, the one in the church. He dips his head to whisper something into his mother’s ear, and she squeezes Charles’s hand a little tighter, pulls him closer to her side. The wedding party gathers around the open grave, and it seems that it only takes a few minutes for the coffin to be lowered, the workers straining under the weight of it, their foreheads shining with sweat. Charles stares at the gleaming wood of the coffin, and its as though he’s forgotten how to blink. There is terrible moment when his mother’s breath seems to catch in her throat, as though lodged there, and then it’s over, and the coffin is being covered, one shower of dirt at a time. That’s the first time Charles gets the feeling that has been his constant companion ever since— the strange, prickly feeling like is being watched. They boy flinches, shifting uncomfortably in place, an action that anybody watching would have mistaken as either discomfort or grief, but the feeling doesn’t go away. 

From behind him, across the cemetery, an old man raises a hand in greeting at the boy. He’s gaunt and stooped, but there’s still a spring to his step like that of a much younger man. The two lock eyes, and perhaps it’s the absurdity of the situation that links them, or something else, but when the man smiles gently at him, Charles returns it. He thinks that the man looks just as out of place as he feels, dressed in overalls instead of the black suit his mother had forced him to wear. 

“Charles,” his mother’s voice recalls him, as she presses her damp face to his, sinking to her knees in the freshly mown grass. They sit together like that for a few minutes, Charles trying to breathe where his face is pressed up into the shoulder of her stiff black dress. There are little shudders running through his mother’s body, and the boy’s hands flutter over her stooped back like nervous butterflies, before coming to rest. 

After that, its a haze of condolences and pitying glances, as Charles is towed along behind his mother. At some point he is handed off to a relative, an aunt whose name he can't remember, as his mother falls into quiet conversation with a severe looking man that Charles recognizes as Mr. Marko. Charles was never sure if he liked Kurt, although his parents obviously did. They’ve had the man over for dinner many times, and although he has never been unkind, from their few interactions the boy has gotten the feeling that Kurt does not like children very much. Still, his words, though the boy cannot hear them, seem to bring some comfort to Sharon, who lets her hand be pressed and gives a watery smile. 

Then the prickly feeling is back, brushing over the back of his neck, and Charles looks back towards the cemetery. In the shade of the bushes, stands a stooped old man in dirty overalls. Charles gives him a little wave, feeling a strange sort of excitement when it is returned after a moment. The aunt gives him a strange look, and asks him if he wants any juice. 

 

When he finds the man later, slipping away during the reception, he’s glad to be in the shade of a gazebo, where the light is still green, but much softer, dappled by branches. The old man has placed his back to one of the pillars, but he nods his head politely to the boy. 

“Always hated funerals,” the old man says conversationally, in a voice rusty from disuse, and Charles nods. This is his first one, he explains, but he doesn’t like it much either. Too hot, too many people, and he just wants to go home. There’s a good bit of understanding on the man’s strange, indistinct face at that last sentence. He tells the boy his name is Roy. 

“Did you know… my father? From work?” Charles tries politely. He doesn’t much want to talk right now, but it’s better than having his hands squished by his mother again. 

“No, ‘fraid not. He must have been liked, to have so many friends.” 

“Yes, father has so many friends. They’re always coming over for dinner, or for parties, or to look at father’s work.” Charles agrees eagerly. “Do you work here? Are you like a gardener?” 

The old man laughs, and it sounds the way wind does when it blows through a dusty ravine. “Not quite. Well, not for other people.” he winds his hands together, his gaze wandering. “Have a place out in the countryside. Keep chickens. You ever seen a live chicken, boy?” 

“No. Have you ever been to New York before?”

“Ha! Not on my life, if I can help it. Oh, don’ look at me like that. Whatever place you grows up in always looks pretty damn good. I know how it is, I ain’t that old. I jus like my peace and quiet, and trees more than people. I’m jus here to visit my daughter.” 

“Where is she?” Charles looks around as though expecting the girl to appear at any minute. He shuffles nervously. “Maybe I should go ask mother for you. Or the church man.” 

“Nah, stay an' talk for a minute. I keep thinking I got something to do, but I don't know what it is. You ever feel like that?” 

After thinking for a minute, the boy steps a bit closer, sinking down to sit with his knees tucked up to his chest. His voice is small as he replies. “Sometimes I forget what chore I’m supposed to be doing when it walk into another room. I’m sure you’ll remember, Roy.” Roy smiles at him in response, nodding slowly. His milky eyes flicker over Charles crumpled form, as though trying to put together a difficult puzzle. Thoughts, it seem, allude him.

For a few minutes, its just them and the susurrous of tiny insects in the bushes, Charles with his head cradled in his small, sweat sticky hands, the old man trying to piece his life back together. Both of them struggling to deal with the same concept—one of them failing because they’re a child, and the other failing because realizing it would change everything. 

Roy shakes his head suddenly, causing it fall into a slash of light, one that keeps slashing right through him. He cannot quite remember why he is here, in fact, just that something is wrong. 

“She oughta be here by now. I was waiting right there, on the corner. And then…” 

Charles jumps at the outburst, pulling his head up to frown at the man. “Then?” 

“No, this ain’t right. I need to—“ the old man’s whole form seems to flicker with his alarm, and Charles is struck by a sudden desire to get up and run away, quick as he can. His legs, though, feel like molasses. Roy works his mouth like a horse on a bit. “—I jus wanna go home.” 

Like a sleepwalker, he detaches himself from the pillar and shuffles past the boy, and as he does its like a wave of coldness washes over the area. Charles shivers, but it’s not the cold that has him freezing a minute later, gaze locked on the man’s retreating back. Sticking out of the back of it, shining with gore, is the handle of a knife. It protrudes from between his bony shoulder blades, cutting the bent old back into two vicious pieces, and it’s all the boy can do but to stare, transfixed, with wide blue eyes. 

Then, the spell is broken, and Charles screams loudly enough to startle the birds perched on the roof of the gazebo. 

 

 

_10 years later…_

 

Charles comes awake as he always does, with a slight start, and for a minute he cannot remember where he is. The floor feels gritty and cold against his cheek, and a cool wind blows across his ankles, making him shiver. Eyes opening, it comes back to him in a flash, and he sits up slowly, lowering his face into his hands to rub at his tired eyes. His homework is laid out in a sprawl at his side, scattered by the wind across the marble floor. Falling asleep on the floor of a mausoleum is not always a good idea, but then again, he hadn’t gotten much sleep last night. His back certainly won’t thank him for this. 

A quick glance outside proves that its already dark outside, meaning Charles has overslept, and his absence will soon be felt. He doesn’t fancy an encounter with his step father, not when his eyes feel so gritty and overused. A slight movement from the doorway catches his eye, and Charles smiles knowingly, rubbing a hand self consciously through his messy dark hair. Twin pairs of dark eyes watch him from the corner, blinking slowly. The small boy, pressed into the shadows as he is, would not be much easier to see if he stepped out into the swath of moonlight cutting through the door. His form is hazy and transparent enough as it is, flickering with his every movement. Charles has never gotten a name out of the kid, or any other words, but he calls him Sean, because it seems to suit him. 

“Good evening, Sean.” Charles greets ruefully, adding as he checks his watch, "Or, Good morning, I suppose?" He begins to gather up his things, mind already planning on the best way to sneak back into Westchester. He considers the back door, but he doesn’t want any of the staff to notice him, either. Though most of the service staff at Westchester manor are fond of the polite, quiet youth, even they might balk at his late night excursions if they knew where he was going. No, best to go by tree, Charles thinks, visualizing the big oak next to his window. Many an hour Charles has spent in the green embrace of that tree, hiding from Cain, or else reading in the dappled light that drifts in from between the branches, lost in a natural history or a novel. Sometimes Raven joins him, being the only other person he trusts with the location of that particular hideout. Thinking of his sister, he bits his lip, hoping she isn’t still up and wondering where he is right now. He sighs, beginning to gather up his homework. 

It might have seemed strange to the outside observer, for someone with his abilities to spend so much time in cemeteries, but the truth was that it was a quieter place to do a little reading than the grounds of Westchester, and his reputation for kind eyes and a willing ear proceeded him, even to the dead. They weren’t much different from living people anyway—in fact, some were much nicer. They were simply lonely, yearning for someone to notice them, tired of lurking behind gravestones or haunting the houses of the living without ever being seen. He likes talking with them and sharing their company, likes the idea of being able to bring them some relief so that they might pass on more peacefully. 

As if blown by an unseen hand, the scattered papers drift closer to Charles, arranging themselves into a neat pile. “Thank you!” Charles exclaims, laughing, and Sean flickers in and out in excitement, pleased as always at the older boy’s praise. If only Charles could get him to speak with him, instead of always staying hidden away in corners; Peter’s grip on the afterlife is almost terrifyingly strong, and that only happens when a spirit has a good reason to be restless. Charles would help him, if he could. Find out whatever tragedy caused his death, what caused him to be so afraid, and put it to rights, but so far he hasn't been able to get close enough. 

As he exits the cemetery, picking his way carefully between the overgrown gravestones so as not to trip, he catches glimpse of a shadow crouched next to one of the stones, head bent low. Charles stops suddenly, breath letting out in a little rush, and quickly darts behind a tree. One of the spirits, the old woman who always sits on top of her grave brushing out her long, slivery hair, mouths a question in his direction. Charles shakes his head. No, he hasn’t seen this person before. She frowns at him, looking concerned, and Charles knows on some instinctual level that if he was ever truly in danger, more than half the spirits in the ancient cemetery would be behind him. 

He peers back around the tree, cautious about this stranger in the graveyard. People who hang out in graveyards at this time of night are not usually good news—he should know. From this distance, eyes straining in the dark, he can barely make out the figure. They appear to be male, lean of form and tall, dressed in a dark trench coat. The man is speaking softly under his breath, and Charles watches with something like fascination as one hand reaches out and strokes slowly across the front of the stone, before dropping gently into the grass. 

Charles wishes he could see him better—as it is, all he can catch is the glint of a sharp profile illuminated by the moonlight. It’s a nice profile, strong, with an aquiline nose. The man says something else, a barely contained whisper edged with something dark, almost angry. A moment later he bows his head, shoulders shaking, and Charles feels suddenly ashamed for spying on such an intimate moment. 

He ducks out from behind the tree on light feet, keeping to the shadows so that the moonlight won’t give him away, giving the stranger a wide berth. As he passes, he can feel the presence of the many spirits around him, as they duck behind gravestones to let him pass, or else join up in a train behind him, chattering curiously amongst themselves as they drift along aimlessly, drawn to his living, breathing presence. They have no cause to be quiet, of course, but Charles is made of flesh and blood, and so chooses his steps carefully. 

A sudden movement from the gate as him cursing under his breath, forced to take refuge behind a large marble statue this time. He groans quietly, clutching his bag to his chest and knocking his head softly against the statue. It’s apparently a very busy night in the cemetery, and Charles just wants it to end so he can get home. If he wasn’t so freaked out, he probably would have found the whole situation amusing. 

Someone in heels is walking across one of the cobbled walkways, each step punctuated by a sharp click, and Charles freezes as they pass dangerously close to his hiding place. He folds into himself, trying to be as small as possible and hardly daring to breath, only relaxing once they have passed him by. 

There’s a sharp intake of breath, and the stranger curses, obviously surprised. A quick fumbling in the dark, and then a woman’s voice is speaking, low and urgent. He can’t make out the words. He hopes that whoever the woman is, she and the man are on enough good terms that whatever conversation they are having in the middle of a graveyard during the night doesn’t end badly. It alway’s a bit of a hectic when all the spirits get agitated, annoyed about having their peace disrupted. Last time there’d been a teenaged vandal in the cemetery, it had taken Charles a good week to settle everyone down again, and at least a few hours to persuade them from scaring the poor kids into a heart attack. 

He feels a breeze drift past his face, blowing his hair slightly, and Charles smiles, blue eyes going bright with sudden understanding. The gate at the end of the path has drifted open, imperceptibly quiet for something with such creaky hinges. He senses rather than sees Sean’s shy, answering grin, just catching sight of the edge of the boy’s form as he melts back into the shadows. The gate looms open, and he can catch sight of the street just beyond, quiet at this time of night but lit by the odd street light. It’s not very far, from where he is, and it’s late enough that Charles decides he can risk the possibly of being spotted. 

He spares another glance around the statue, noting that there are now two figures, bent closely together and clearly in rapt discussion, before he makes a run for it, hoping he has good enough luck not to trip and brain himself on the edge of someone’s last resting place. Jean Crowley, her hair in pigtails and still in the antique, flowery nightgown that she breathed her last in, giggles as he dashes by, but otherwise the night is silent. There are no calls of alarm, or shouts for him to stop. 

It’s with no small amount of satisfaction that he emerges a minute later, clutching his chest, having accomplished his escape without being spotted. He shoots a glance back as the gate swings closed again, just as quiet as before. 

“Thanks, Sean,” he whispers. After a moments consideration, he throws in a royal wave, posh and British, sure that the boy will get quite a kick out of that. It might have been his imagination, but he likes to think that the wind sending dead leaves skittering across his shoes is some sort of response. 

He looks at his watch, curses, and sets off and running down the street, eager to get home. He doesn’t think too much of the two strangers, or the moment of private grief he had witnessed, more caught up in the fact that the spirit’s assistance might mean he’s opening up to Charles a little bit. Perhaps if he’s lucky, keeps going to the cemetery after school and making his presence felt bit by bit, Sean might even start talking to him. 

Years ago, when he first got over that bone chilling shock at his father’s funeral, he’d done everything that he could to bury his powers, ignoring what he saw in the hopes that denial would somehow prove the whole situation just a dream. That was before he got to know any of the spirits, though, and discovered that they really were just like any living person, only ones with more problems and a disturbing amount of loneliness. 

The trick is that loneliness can be healed with kindness, and that unfinished business can always be finished if one is determined enough. And having the sight does have its merits, too, even if Charles feels crazy half of the time. You can find out a lot about a person through their dead relatives, for one thing. It’s gotten to the point where it isn't at all uncommon for people to assume he’s some kind of psychic, because his hunches are often a little too right. Not only that, but spirits can make powerful friends if they’re on your side. 

Once, when he was eight, he’d run into a bit of trouble at school when Cain and his friends cornered him in the third floor corridor. He can remember the visceral fear of it, and the anger, too, at the injustice of three verses one. The burning pain in his cheek had seemed to make his whole body pulse with it, and in that moment he must have been putting off the most intense distress signals. A second later, the ghost of the school’s old superintendent had caused all the lights in the corridor to explode, plunging the boys into darkness. Satisfaction and terror had made a strange combination in him after that, but eventually it was something that he had gotten used to, if only out of necessity. 

 

 

When he slides into his window twenty minutes later, hands scrapped from the rough bark of the oak tree, the clock says half past two in the morning. Sometimes he’s so fucking lucky that Kurt rarely checks on him. The room is cast in soft shades of gray and black, and Charles swings his bag over the back of his desk chair, rubbing his eyes. He stops, turning. If he’s not mistaken, and after the incident in the graveyard he’s pretty sure he’s fairly alert, that’s the sound of someone breathing. 

Lying on his bed, her hand curled up under her cheek, is Raven. The slow rise and fall of her chest is comforting, making him want to match his own labored breaths to hers, and Charles approaches quietly so as not to wake the younger girl. He immediately feels like a bit of an ass, because he’d completely forgotten that he’d promised to help Raven with her science project after he got home. She must have waited up for him, who knows for how long, her science book dropped across her legs, before she’d fallen asleep. He sits down next to her, sinking slightly into the soft bed, and brushes some of her long blonde hair out of her face. 

She might be seven years younger than him, but the moment that Raven had come into his life he had felt an immediate kinship with her. Goodness knows the pregnancy had taken everything out of their mother, who’d been wreaked with grief as it was over the death of their father and was barely able to contend with the idea that she was unexpectedly pregnant. After Raven had been born, she’d spiraled into the deepest of postpartum depressions, and there had been a long, bleak period where all Charles saw of his mother had been her closed door at the end of a hallway. After her death, with Kurt and Cain to deal with and no mother around to act as a buffer, Brian Xavier’s children had drifted closer out of necessity, protecting each other with an intense kind of fierceness.  
Charles’s mouth thins. He feels an uncomfortable mix of emotions, terror at the idea of leaving for college next year, of leaving his sister behind, and yet still dreaming of getting away, of going to school and making something of himself—getting a doctorate, even teaching someday. Maybe having a chance of discovering how his sight works. And he could do, too. He’s smart, ambitious, could have even graduated early if his stepfather would let him. But thinking about it makes him feel sick, with Raven still so young, so many years away from her own chance at freedom, so he pushes it aside. 

He sets her textbook down onto the floor and then tucks his sister into bed, hands gentle. She murmurs slightly in her sleep, and Charles feels an unbearable sort of fondness clench in his chest. “Sorry,” he whispers, as Raven snores on, unbothered. Thank God she’s a heavy sleeper.

Settling himself onto the generous king bed, he curls into a ball, covers drawn up to his ears as tiredness crashes over him like a wave. His mind is drawn back to the strange events in the graveyard, Sean’s newfound boldness, the strangers, before sleep draws him under. 

 

 

Across the city, Detective Erik Lehnsherr hails a cab outside of the Blackwell Cemetery, his face set into a tense line. Besides him stands a tall, pretty woman with dark hair, who keeps shooting concerned glances in his direction as though afraid her companion is going to snap at any second. Neither of them looks back at the graveyard behind them, the old wrought iron gate flapping open and closed in the wind, like a hand waving goodbye. 

“Erik—“

“Enough, Moira. It’s fine.” he snaps, running a hand over his face. There are still grass stains on the knees of his dark jeans. The night has grown chilly, the autumn wind eerie where it rustles the trees, and suddenly a warm shower and a nightcap in his hotel is sounding better and better. 

“No, it’s not. I shouldn’t have followed you. That was a gross invasion of your privacy, and I’m sorry.” 

They step back as the cab rolls up to the curb, and Erik holds the door open for her. “I’m not angry with you, honestly. Maybe a little surprised to have you sneaking up to me in the middle of a fucking graveyard. Really surprised. You were relatively civil, too— I’m lucky you didn’t punch me.” he tries to infuse some humor by giving a rueful grin, teeth white and sharp, but Moira isn’t having it. 

“Keep talking like that and I _will_ punch you.” 

Erik sighs. “I know I should have called you.” he glances at her, reads the hurt she is barely able to conceal in her stiff posture, and his tone softens considerably. Whatever has happened between now and the last time he saw her, he still cares for his former partner. “I didn’t exactly expect Shaw to call me in.” 

Moira snorts, her tone slightly acidic. “No one did. It was insufferable in the station after we got the news. To be frank, Erik, no one thought you were going to come back, not for a long time. I still think a call would have been nice, for old time’s sake. I had to find out what hotel you were staying at through Emma Frost.” she shakes her head at the name. “And for the record, this is the stupidest idea I’ve heard in a long time, and I told Shaw that.”

The man winces at her bluntness, but seems to take the statement in stride. He’d expected as much, to be honest. Would he have thought he’d be coming back, if you’d asked him a month ago? No, until recently he’d been perfectly happy to while away his time in Europe, doing his best to forget everything about the city, pretending he’d never held this job—basically burying everything. He’d thought about calling Moira more than once, writing an email, maybe, but every time he’d sat down to do it he’d feel that buzz under his skin, that live-wire anxiety, and he’d stopped. Inevitably, such avenues ended with him getting shitfaced at some anonymous bar, driving all of the memories out of his head with brute force. 

“Come with me to the crime scene tomorrow,” he says, after a moment where they both are just listening to the sound of traffic around them, the quiet hum of the radio. “I’m not asking you to work with me. But I need your eyes on this.” 

Moira shoots a considering look at him, her pale face pulled into a frown. He can tell she doesn’t want to say yes, that in her head she is picking apart all the ways that having Erik Lehnsherr back on the field is a terrible, awful idea, and recalls how she treated him like he was going to break when she’d found him in the graveyard. But there’s also years of history there, and heaps of mutual respect, so he’s not all that surprised when she ends up nodding. 

“How fresh?” he asks.

“They found him last night, in a storeroom in some medical research facility. A nurse discovered the body, the poor thing. Shaw got the scene closed off right away, although I think forensics got a look.” she shifts so that she’s facing him, and puts a hand on his arm. “If you need someone to talk to, my door is always open. It’s not pretty, Erik. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Erik surprises them both by actually smiling.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where this idea came from, but I wanted to write about a Charles who can see ghosts and is basically just like the biggest friend to them and wants to help them solve all their problems, because that seemed adorable and honestly so in character. And then it turned into some weird mystery where Erik is a detective and there's a bit of an age difference and yeah, I don't know how that happened. Anyway, I'm not going to tag this as underage because I do mean it with the slow burn tag, and Charles is already 17 at the beginning of this fic. 
> 
> Please drop a comment if you are interested at all in this strange little story, I think I'd probably freak out from excitement. I'm hoping to update consistently, like once a week, instead of being a flakey bastard like I usually am.This is my first foray into this fandom so any constructive comments/suggestions would be super helpful. Also, if anybody has any ideas for a better title I would love you forever. The one I have now is pretty much just a placeholder.Thanks for reading!


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